


Gentle and Meticulous

by alphaofallcats



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Collars, Don't copy to another site, M/M, implied Damian Wayne/Slade Wilson, implied Tim Drake/Slade Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26670199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphaofallcats/pseuds/alphaofallcats
Summary: “I asked,” Damian says, trying to sound indignant, “where is it?”Honestly, Roy hasn’t the slightest idea what Damian is talking about, but it figures the son of the Most Dramatic Man Ever would be too cryptic to clarify whatever the hell he meant.
Relationships: Roy Harper/Damian Wayne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19
Collections: DCU Rarepair Exchange 2020





	Gentle and Meticulous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meaninglessblah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/gifts).



When Roy Harper accepted the anonymous commission, he didn’t think much of it. Well, he did, because it was a lot of fucking money for something he thought was well below his skill level, but beyond that, he didn't have a single, curious thought. It still should have been obvious. Gunmetal black metallic on the left, rusty red matte on the right, a straight split down the middle dividing the two. No words, no text. A small, unnoticeable tracker chip embedded inside. And intricate wiring hidden underneath a black velvet lining with nerve sensors that could deliver variations of electrical shocks, ranging from a small tickle, to a jaw clenching irritation, to a knee-buckling whimper of pain. With a discrete pocket-sized remote control. 

As promised, he was wired the full payment upfront. And according to the request, a third party would be picking up the gift and delivering a tip.

Roy still didn’t think anything of it when Damian Wayne knocked on his door two weeks later.

\- - -

The kid -- well, no, he isn’t a kid anymore, hasn’t been for a few years -- stands in his doorway looking as regally standoffish as ever, if not slightly uncomfortable. Which makes sense in Roy’s head; Damian hardly ever visits unless Jason drags him around, and even then it is only for a short while, and Damian spends the entire visit staring at his phone, pointedly ignoring both of them. 

So it should be odd that he’s here alone now, should at least be chiming some sort of bells in his head. But Roy’s been without company for a few weeks, Lian with her mother, Kori somewhere in space, Jason saving Gotham from its never-ending perilous doom. He’s lonely and starved for attention, so he doesn’t think anything of it.

Damian draws in a breath, and then with the grace of a falling cat, asks, “Where is it?”

Roy lazily looks the few inches up at Damian. “What?”

“I asked,” Damian says, trying to sound indignant, “where is it?”

Honestly, Roy hasn’t the slightest idea what Damian is talking about, but it figures the son of the Most Dramatic Man Ever would be too cryptic to clarify whatever the hell he meant.

“Where is what? Actually, what is it? What are you—”

Damian pushes past Roy into the apartment. Roy relents and shuts the door behind him, trying not to roll his eyes at the dramatics.

“For acting so stubbornly vague,” Roy calls out after him, “you’re being awfully pushy.”

\- - -

Against the backdrop of Roy’s apartment, Damian looks so out of place. The clutter of all Roy’s half projects, midnight musings, trinkets, Jason’s teacups repurposed to hold screws and bolts and washers, and Lian’s ever-growing collection of gel pens, markers, and crayons, all seem to emphasize Damian’s presence. And he’s standing there, wearing some stupidly expensive Wayne Enterprise Apparel button-up shirt, slacks, a belt, polished shoes. Roy can’t even remember the last time he wore a button-up shirt that wasn’t a flannel and that wasn’t hanging open.

Once Damian finishes his precursory glance around the room, eyes finally settling on Roy, he says, “Don’t be so facetious, Harper.”

“Ouch.” Roy raises a hand to chest, but smirks as Damian’s eyes narrow. “I’m wounded, I thought we were past the last name pet-names.”

Damian’s face scrunches up. “I’ve never used pet-names with you.”

Roy sighs, “A shame, too.” He takes a few steps closer, until he’s close enough to Damian that he could reach out to undo the top buttons of his shirt if he wanted to, mess up that pristine facade just a little. “I’m pretty low on affection at the moment, would love to be called something pretty by you.”

Cheeks searing red, Damian puffs up his chest as if he means to start a fight (and gods, Roy could use a good one right now, just to touch something else, someone else), meets his eyes and hisses, “Just give me the collar.”

It takes a moment for Roy’s brain to process the words. He blames it on forgetting to take his meds, blames it on Damian looking too uptight and flustered. 

Roy only knows about one collar. The one he was commissioned stupid amounts of money to make. _Anonymously_ commissioned.

“How do you know about that?” 

“I was asked to pick it up.”

Roy puts his hands on Damian’s shoulders, just barely resisting the urge to shake him. “ _By who_?”

Damian blushes every shade of pink. “Slade.”

\- - -

Roy brings Damian down to the basement and holds his arms out triumphantly like he’s presenting him with a shiny, brand new, red car. Or whatever an extravagant prize would be for someone who could buy anything in the world.

“Welcome to my Bat Cave!”

“Bat Cave,” Damian deadpans.

“Well, whatever the equivalent is. But all my friends just call it The Workshop for short, so I’ll extend the pleasure to you.”

Damian just stares at him, unamused and uncomfortable, so Roy grabs his wrist and drags him down the last of the stairs, then positions him near the floor-to-ceiling mirror along the wall perpendicular to his workbench. When Damian stays put, Roy shuffles to the cluttered table, shoving aside the small piles of messes until he finds the collar.

He presents it to Damian. 

Damian takes it, hands gentle and meticulous, graceful even, all of Talia’s fine prowess, lethal power restrained inside a careful touch. 

“What do you think?” Roy asks, feeling too fidgety in the silence.

After a pause, Damian holds it back out. “We should see if it fits.”

Somehow, Roy manages to keep his fingers from shaking as he undoes the buttons on Damian’s shirt. Somehow, is just as careful as Damian was when holding the collar. Somehow, makes the pads of his fingers intentionally pass along Damian’s skin, over a bruise, over a scar.

Then Roy ducks behind Damian, letting him face the mirror again. Steadily, he unlocks the clasp, reaching around Damian to pull the collar snug on his throat. Doesn’t bother asking how it fits because he knows it’s perfect. Knows in the way Damian’s shoulders relax, knows in the way Damian rolls his head back just the slightest so Roy’s fingers trace across his hairline.

“Your workshop is smaller than the Bat Cave,” Damian says, and it’s the closest thing to small talk Roy’s ever witnessed from the youngest Bat Brat.

“Size isn’t everything, babe,” Roy says, almost reflexively. He cringes, then adds, “Well, so I’ve been told. The sentiment’s never been directed at me.”

Roy peeks back at the mirror, smirking again, meaning to wink and expecting to see another blush. But Damian’s staring at him, composed with newfound confidence. The collar doesn’t stand out against his skin, doesn’t look flashy to draw attention, but that’s probably the point. Hidden in plain sight, a secret titillatingly kept between two intimate people.

“Do you normally talk about the size of your cock to everyone?”

After Roy sputters, he takes a deep breath, composes himself enough to actually think about the question.

“No.” Damian crowds him against the workbench, and when his spine hits the ledge Roy adds, “Only to my friends.”

Damian’s smile is all teeth. “Will you extend the pleasure to me?”

Roy steals a glance at the mirror, sees Damian’s hand slide up his thigh, to the button on his jeans.

“Why should I?” he asks, his stare landing back on Damian, trying to regain control of the situation, trying not to submit to the feeling of Damian Wayne’s hand palming his cock through his pants. But it’s so hard, _he’s_ so hard, and lonely, and the temptation is right there. And the collar around his throat turned him into the sub Slade trained him to be.

“Because,” Damian says, hand still holding all that controlled poise as he gives a light, teasing squeeze. “Slade said I couldn’t leave before I gave you a tip.”

“Fuck,” he says, voice already breathless. “Fine, yes, okay, yes. Just—”

Damian pops off the button, pulls down the zipper, tugs Roy’s jeans to his ankles as he falls to his knees. He settles there, makes a deal of peeling down his underwear. 

Roy chances a glance back at the mirror and is pleasantly surprised with the view when Damian takes that exact moment to slide his mouth down Roy’s cock. Slade’s collar stretches around Damian’s throat as he swallows. All Roy can think about is how Damian is getting fucked by Slade, and how that tangible present of possession created a smooth transition for Damian to be the sub that Slade trained him to be. And all Roy can think about how good it feels, how perfect it looks, and how he’s definitely not going to last very long, records of stamina be damned.

If Slade ends up putting a bullet through his head, he’ll at least die knowing he’s had the best orgasm of his life. 

\- - -

Slade Wilson doesn’t put a bullet through Roy’s head. Instead, he sends him another commission (which Roy is smart enough to think about now, he’s learned from the past.)

It’s the same price, the same design, the same locator chip, the same electric wiring, and the same pocket-sized remote. It’s not the same wording.

_I have an unruly Switch. You can be expecting the third party to pick up the commission and leave a tip._

Roy doesn’t stop thinking about it until Tim Drake knocks on his door two weeks later.

**Author's Note:**

> <3


End file.
